subtle like
by skinflint
Summary: One person’s hero can be another person’s villain. It all depends on who you ask. [Rated R for violence, language and rape] -Not Finished-
1. introduction

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters portrayed in the film Newsies. I'm not making money off this. Please don't sue me; all I own is my soul and I'm pretty sure that's doomed now. Yikes.

---  
  
He knows exactly the right words to say. Whatever situation he needs to take care of—and he has a lot of situations—he will know what he has to be. Intimidating? Forceful? Smooth? Sometimes all that's needed is a look, or a nod. And if he has to forfeit words and simply use his fist? Well, he can do that, too. Because he's a leader. A damn good one, too.  
  
Jack Kelly, leader of the boys over in Manhattan, he's got a little bit of this power. He sees what he has to be in order to win the favor of his adversaries. He's got the backing of several major sections of New York, after all, including Brooklyn. Impressive. But when it comes down to the hard stuff, like the Strike, only his reputation really pulls him through. That's why he spends most of his time fulfilling that good guy rep, building his peacemaker status, and when it starts to get tough, letting his little crony David Jacobs do the _real_ talking. Jacobs could really become a match for Spot Conlon one day, if he learns how to use his gift of words properly. But he could never be hard enough. I've seen how he is.  
  
There are others. Sutty Suttcliffe, over in the Bronx; Rocky O'Brien, Harlem; Steve Downing, Staten Island; Swing Ivanov, a Queens big shot. They all have qualities necessary for leadership. O'Brien is very private, no one knows if or when he'll strike out. He needs to be watched the most carefully. Downing is popular among the newsies—not as well liked or respected as Kelly, but close. Ivanov intimidates with his hulking demeanor. And Suttcliffe, he's as hard and calculating as Spot. But they have weaknesses. O'Brien is so withdrawn that he has no prominent alliances with any of the other boroughs. Downing is always taken lightly, and relies heavily on Ivanov for physical support. Ivanov, meanwhile, doesn't have the smarts to outwit anyone. Suttcliffe's problem lies with drink—he's solid when he's sober, but there have been attacks planned for precisely the right time after a few too many shots of Jack. Stability is lost.  
  
Brooklyn has weaknesses, sure. But no one knows exactly what they are, or how to use them to his advantage. It's what makes Spot the most feared, respected and obeyed newsies leader in New York. Because he has the power of words, power to manipulate and abuse their meaning to suit him in all of his situations—and situations come in all sorts of shapes and forms.

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**Author's Note:** Yes, this is an Original Character POV. Just thought I'd warn you before/if you continue. Heh. :)


	2. one: drunk

**Warning:** Rated R for language.

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It was a good night to drink. Jack Kelly and a few of his boys had stopped by Brooklyn for the night, bringing with them bottles of cheap whisky and rum. It was a celebration—Swing Ivanov and Steve Downing had backed down from threats of attack, just a month after the success of the Strike. I don't know the details; I had just started hanging around the newsies' scene only a couple weeks before, and wasn't privy to that sort of information yet. Or, more truthfully, I hadn't quite mastered the art of eavesdropping and snooping, essentials that I developed later on in the game.  
  
Being a girl, it had taken quite a bit of time before Spot would even accept the idea of me becoming a newsie. I had endured weeks of sleeping outside near the Paper Distribution Office to prove to the boys that I was serious about the job. Spot finally allowed me a bunk in the Lodging House three nights before this celebration—something to be proud of, considering there are only a handful of girl newsies in New York and only two before me in Brooklyn since Spot took over. Those girls—the legendary Flips Coughlin (as tough as Spot, could've been leader, had she been born a male), and the clever, scheming Pitch Taylor—were long gone by the time I showed up. It didn't really matter since I was nothing like either of them. I was sincere, and slow to realizing that my naïveté and trust in Spot and his boys were exactly why I appealed to them—not because they liked _me_, but because they liked the vulnerability I possessed. I was an easy target, in more ways than one.  
  
Out on the docks, it was getting noisy and very, very drunk. It was a warm summer night, and boys were stripping off their outer clothes and jumping into the water, or playing cards out on the dock. Racetrack Higgins, one of Kelly's boys, was leading a particularly loud, rambunctious game of poker, and by the sound it, he was winning. There were a few other girls there aside from me; Jack Kelly had even brought this classy girl—David Jacobs' sister, I'd heard—along for the party. She was sitting on his lap and sharing sips of whisky with him. Kelly was grinning and laughing and showing off, like he normally does when he's hanging around Spot; even Brooklyn was drinking, he was in such good humor.  
  
"It looks like your girl here can hold her liquor better than you friend can, Cowboy," he mused, nodding towards a very intoxicated and unconscious David Jacobs at the edge of the dock. "Not three shots and he's out."  
  
"Poor Davy. He might have to stay over in Brooklyn tonight. I ain't risking his retching on me by carryin' him home."  
  
"The way you've been drinking, I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up passed out right along with my brother," teased the girl. Spot and Wolf Adams (Conlon's right-hand man) roared with laughter. Jack grinned and downed another shot, never one to get out of sorts with any girl, especially his girlfriend.  
  
"You gonna let her talk to you that way, Jacky-boy?" I watched as Spot cocked his eyebrows in mock-disbelief. I knew from experience that although he didn't mind if Kelly's girl mouthed off—"if that's what he wants in a bitch, then hell, let him have it," he'd been fond of declaring—if any girl had the gall to speak that way to him, it'd be a straight ticket to a backhand across the face, or worse.  
  
"Hey, I ain't lettin' her do anything. She says what she does. An' anyway, nobody can beat me at mouthing off." A goofy grin floated from his face to hers. Spot groaned.  
  
"Pussy-whipped, that's what you are, Jack." Wolf nodded his agreement. I wasn't about to say it, but if Jack Kelly was pussy-whipped by David Jacobs' sister, then maybe the proper term for Wolf would be dick- whipped—by Spot Conlon. If the fucker had ever voiced a disagreement with Brooklyn, I've never been alive to hear it. Dick-fucking-_whipped_.  
  
Spot reached toward the whisky bottle to pour himself and Jack another shot, and frowned. Empty. He sat back with an irritated sigh, and that's when his blue eyes caught my brown.  
  
I was sitting not more than ten feet away, listening to the drunken conversations around me for entertainment. See, I didn't have many friends, and the only person who'd bothered to talk to me that night was David Jacobs—before he had passed out, that is. He'd stumbled over, said "hello, I think I'm going to be sick," handed me a half-empty bottle of rum, and staggered off towards the embankment to fulfill his promise. Since he'd left me in possession of his liquor, I took the liberty of emptying most of it's contents in a few body-shuddering gulps that left me feeling good—and drunk.  
  
I looked away from Conlon's stare, not wanting him to know that I'd been eavesdropping for a good half hour or more. I took another swig of rum and threw the now-empty bottle into the water. "Hey, girl." I didn't know if that was Spot talking to me, so I ignored the call. What the hell would he want with me, anyway? Nothing, of course, I reasoned. _I think it's time to find more to drink._ I started up, but again, I heard him call. "Girl. Doxy." I whipped around.  
  
"It's _Roxanne_. Randuch. Roxie Randoch." I corrected, quite loudly. Now not only was Spot looking at me, but Wolf, Jack, and David Jacobs' sister, too. Spot and Wolf leered at me. I was the new activity, since Jack and his lovely girl became boring. I knew it right then.  
  
"Well, you look like a doxy. So you're fuckin' Doxy." I flushed. He was insinuating, of course, that I was randy. A prostituite; whore. Doxy. "Now get the fuck over here." I stood up, a little unsteady. That last drink had hit me hard, but I was determined not to show it. I was _not_ a whore, I was a _newsie_. And I told Spot as much as I headed over.  
  
"What you are is _shitfaced_, little girl." Wolf sat back, condescension loud in his tone. _So much for not showing it.  
_  
"Doxy," Spot twirled his cane leisurely, as if he was uninterested in me already. I reddened. "Get me another bottle of whisky."  
  
I paused. "Where?"  
  
He looked up at me, his eyes boring directly into mine, and "I don't care where. Just do it." Even in my drunken state I knew it best not to argue or object, so I started off toward Racetrack Higgins' poker game, where there was bound to be at least one Jack Daniels left, if not more. And as I hurried off, I heard Spot say to Jack, quite calmly, "now _that_ is how you're supposed to handle these cunts, Jacky-boy."  
  
"Put 'em in their place, right boss?" Wolf agreed gleefully.  
  
Jack laughed uneasily. "I don't know, Spot. I think it's better to treat 'em nice, like ladies."  
  
"That's why you're pussy-whipped." Spot repeated, sounding disgusted. Jack let it go.

---  
  
**Author's Note:** I thought I'd explore the realm of sexism in this fic; I'm sure at least some of these boys back in 1899 must have had an inclination toward this kind of attitude. All too possible, since I know some people in my life that are this bad and it's the year freakin' 2004. Anyway, we'll see where this goes. I have an idea.


	3. two: rape

**Warning:** A disturbing rape scene is in this chapter. Please be aware of it now. Rated R for language, violence, and sex.

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I marched right up to Racetrack Higgins and demanded a bottle of whisky. Slightly disappointed that he had complied so easily—an absent-minded "yeah, yeah, sure," a thrust of his almost-full Jack Daniels into my open hands, and that was his entire acknowledgment of me—I quickly snuck another gulp before hurrying back to Spot.  
  
As I returned, I noticed that Kelly and his girl had made their way over to David Jacobs, seeing if they could lift him to the Lodging House, where I suppose Spot had offered him an extra bunk for the night. Spot and Wolf had been joined by Mush Meyers, Kid Blink, and Bim Jansen at the table, all three a good shade of drunk.  
  
"Here she is, boys," Wolf smiled as I approached. "Come to pour us all a drink, haven't ya, Doxy?" Kid Blink, Mush and Bim all voiced their approval, holding out glasses to me enthusiastically. I tried my best to fill each one without spilling, but the table was spinning just a little and I couldn't seem to focus on any one glass at a time.  
  
"Take the bottle from her, Wolf." I heard someone say, but I couldn't figure out exactly who.  
  
"Yeah, Wolf—Wolfy. What the fuck kinda name is that, anyway? And Mush," I turned toward the curly-haired boy to my left, a smiling angelic-looking fellow with his arm around the much less friendly-looking boy with the eye patch beside him. "Mush, Mush, I forgot what I was gonna say, but you sure are cute!" I giggled and swayed a bit, hearing-but-not-really-hearing the riffing on poor Mush my comment had caused. It took me a moment to realize that I was being steered and dragged away from the commotion; a strong, steady hand had gripped a hold of my wrist, the other hand grasping on to a cane. _The_ cane.  
  
"You sure are short, Spot." More giggles, and more silence. I was being pulled up the Lodging House steps. "Hey, why are we goin' up here? Do you know I'm a newsie now? I jus' turned one, right? You ain't much taller than me, y'know!" He had let go of my wrist just long enough to reach for his key. One of the privileges of being Brooklyn's leader was a private room. It was small, but it had its own bed and drawer. It was nothing short of spectacular for street rats like us. "David Jacobs' sister, she's a real classy broad." I stated. It seemed to match the flow of the conversation at the time.  
  
"She's not a whore like you now, is she?" He said as he unlocked the door. He shoved me inside. I found myself sprawled on the floor, my knees in dull pain. "Get up," he snapped, and when I was too slow to comply he pulled me up roughly by grabbing my loose brown hair—not the pretty brunette color like Jack's girl had, but more of a mousy, muddy brown that was more curly and course on an average basis than I think David Jacobs' sister could even imagine on her worst hair days.  
  
"Ow!" I tried to pull his hand away from my hair but it just made him jerk me harder. I stood there dumbly, waiting for something to happen. I was just too drunk to figure out what the fuck was going on.  
  
"I was having a good time tonight," he said softly, his breath reeking of whisky.  
  
"Uh," I was uncertain of where this was headed, and only caring about the dull ache that had moved from my knees to the back of my head. I stepped back.  
  
"I was having a good time," he repeated, this time angrier, "you drunk cunt."  
  
He wasn't making any sense. He was drunk; I was drunk...it was just getting scary. "I didn't mean to. I don't. I'm sorry?" I felt the sting of his palm across my face before I saw it coming; felt the hot tears on my face before I realized I was crying.  
  
He steered me to his bed. I didn't fight him. "Take off your dress." I numbly obeyed, or tried to; my fingers fumbled and I couldn't quite keep my focus on the buttonholes. Was I supposed to pull the buttons _through _the hole, or was I supposed to pull the holes around the buttons? Well, slow and steady wins the race, like my mama used to say before she left, I'd just have to concentrate a bit harder...  
  
"Fuckin' dumb bitch. I'll do it." He slapped my hands away and seemed like genius before me as he swiftly unbuttoned all the way down to my waist. I knew enough to pull the rest of the dress off my legs; his eyes trailed to my breasts, and then his hands were on them, pushing me down beneath him. He ripped my bustier off and grabbed my wrists in one hand, holding them high above my head, and reached down under my petticoat with his other, fingers prying and poking. I protested, pleaded. He stopped just long enough to smash my head against the wall—that's how hard he backhanded me—and reach down to his pants. I closed my eyes tightly. I'd never seen a boy naked down there before. And suddenly I felt this horrible _pain_ inside. He was pushing and _pushing_ so rough and hard and I couldn't help but scream, his fingers were pressing into my wrists so painfully that I tried to focus on that but it was _hurting so goddamn bad_—  
  
"Spot, what are you _doing_!?" I heard a girl's voice, it was sweet, and Spot suddenly stopped. He was breathing heavily.  
  
"Get your cunt of a girlfriend outta here, Kelly," he said, his voice dangerously low. "This ain't none of her business."  
  
"She's _drunk_, Spot! And she's bleeding!" It was David Jacobs' sister, it finally dawned on me. And she was talking about me. And...was I bleeding? Yes, I was.  
  
"I'm bleeding," I repeated dumbly.  
  
"Sarah, let's go," Jack Kelly whispered. "This ain't our business." He grabbed her arm and pulled her back away from the doorway.  
  
"He's hurting her, Jack!" She snapped. "It's wrong!" She struggled to get free from Kelly's grasp but he was already closing the door.  
  
"Sorry, Spot. Thanks for letting Davey stay here tonight. We appreciate it."  
  
And he closed the door behind him.

---  
  
**Author's Note:** It was hard to write such an evil, sadistic Spot. Rape does happen though, and often times by people we trust and think we know. I'm sorry if this disturbed anyone. :(


	4. three: morning

**Warning:** Rated R for language.  
  
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"Get up." I opened my eyes and immediately my head was flooded with pain. I moaned and buried my head into my arm. Now that I was conscious, I could feel not only the sharp pain in my head, but also the ache of my jaw and the same raw throbbing between my legs. "I said, get _up_." Rough hands yanked and dumped me unceremoniously off the bed and onto the wooden floor.  
  
"I feel sick."  
  
"Look at this fuckin' mess," he muttered. His sheets were stained with blood, and the sight made me feel nauseous all over again. "If I had known you were virgin, maybe I wouldn't have bothered." I stood up shakily, gathering my dress up from the floor with a studied concentration. _Do_ not _throw up in here, please please please..._"Here," he grabbed my hand and shoved a dollar into my fist. "Get yourself another petticoat."  
  
"Thanks," I whispered, and promptly ran to the washroom to vomit in the sink.  
  
"Guess I'm not the only one who don't handle liquor well, huh?" David Jacobs was perched on the edge of the tub, a sickly green color in his cheeks and a wry smile on his lips.  
  
"Guess not," I managed a weak smile before throwing up again. My head was _pounding_.  
  
"Well, well, well." This time it was the unmistakable whine of Wolf Adams, and it did nothing to relieve my headache. "Doxy had quite the night, didn't she?"  
  
"My name. Isn't. Doxy." I gritted my teeth; it wasn't just his mere voice that was grating on my nerves—it was the insinuation behind his words. Like he knew what I'd done last night. Like he _expected_ it. Hell, maybe he had. I guess I wasn't the first girl the good-looking, well-respected Spot Conlon had dragged to his room in a drunken stupor. There were probably even girls that had willingly been there before. Probably. Probably.  
  
"Sure it is, sweetheart. Now." He turned to David Jacobs, his grin wide and suddenly I could understand _exactly_ why he was known as Wolf. "You know why we call her that, don't ya, Jacobs?" David looked down at his feet.  
  
"No. No, I guess I don't."  
  
"Sure you do. Just look at her. You can tell by the way she's walkin' how hard she was fucked last night." He grabbed my face in a vice grip, and the ache in my jaw shot through to the piercing pain in my temple. I winced. "You have to wonder about these kinda girls...the ones that're so eager to live with men instead of taking a job at a factory an' living respectable- like with other women." He released his hold, but his green eyes still bore into mine. His grin disappeared, replaced with a sneer. "Yeah, you got whore in you. Don't ever fuckin' tell me otherwise."  
  
I clenched my fists. "Maybe I didn't have no choice."  
  
"There's always a choice." He nodded to David and made his way toward the main room. Before he left, he turned to me one more time. "You're still here, ain't you?"  
  
I had no reply. I was, after all, still there.  
  
---  
  
**Author's Note:** Big Bad Wolf. 


End file.
